FABLES 

for the 

FRIVOLOUS 



PS 

3551 
H55f5 




\ 



SYLVIA MARCHANT PHILLIPS 




Class _J^S-S^:3 i 
Book ___iJi>iiir3 



JO 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



FABLES FOR THE 
FRIVOLOUS 



AND OTHERS 



BY 



SYLVIA MARCHANT PHILLIPS 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
835 Broadway, New York City 






M^ 



Copyright, 1914 

BY 

Sylvia Marchant Phillips 



$«7r 



!AN-2i9i5 



'CI,A393118 






^5i>:. 



^ 



^ 

J 



Acknowledgment is due to The New 
York Evening Telegram, in which these 
sketches first appeared, and to the Frank 
A, Munsey Company for the poem. 



Contents 

Fables for the Frivolous. 



PAGE 



1. The Peasant Maid and the Fairy Prince. . 5 

2. The Clauses 7 

3. The Frost King 9 

4. The Weeping Beauty 12 

5. The Nightingale 14 

6. Jack's Beanstalk 16 

7. A Patient Griselda 18 

8. The Two Colors 20 

9. The Glass Slipper ,. 22 

ID. Jacques, the Lady-killer. ., 24 

11. Knight and Lady 2y 

12. The Little Match-maker. 29 

13. A Lad and His Wonderful Lamps 31 

Broken Threads. 

1. The Operation 35 

2. The First Dance 38 

3. Engaged , 42 

4. Motherhood 45 

3 



Contents 



PAGB 

5. A Question of Dress 48 

6. Your Daughter's Wedding Day 51 

7. Bon Voyage ! 54 

8. A Day in the Country 57 

9. The Last 60 

Her Beaux. 

1. The Egotist 65 

2. The Humorist 68 

3. The Mollycoddle 71 

4. Sentimental Tommy , 74 

A FAREWELL "jy 



Fables for the Frivolous 



THE PEASANT MAID AND THE FAIRY 

PRINCE 

At the time when, if one spoke evilly, there fell 
from one's mouth cold storage egg shells, Nina, a 
sweet maid, lived with her parents in a land now 
extinct. Nina toiled all the day in the field and 
still she was beautiful. 

Between her mamma and Nina there was an un- 
derstanding that the young girl should marry a 
rich man if such a one should ask her. Nina longed 
to wed, yet, as she faced the sober age of seven- 
teen, she despaired not, neither did she smile. 

One night while the fairies danced on the greens 
Nina, tin can carelessly tied to her waist, made for 
the well to draw her papa some hop product. Sud- 
denly, not due to hops nor else, Nina beheld before 
her a handsome prince in a pale blue and gold ki- 
mono. She tried to faint and he caught her in his 
strong arms. She had pretty eyes and she knew 
how to use them. It was a case of love at first 
sight. The Prince proposed and Nina said pleas- 
antly, "I'm on." Hurriedly, but gently, the Prince 
threw Nina into his snow white taxi and the process 
of abduction was in full force. 



Jfable0 for t&e jFtitiolous 



They were married by the Gaunt Priest of Genii 
Tower. Then they telephoned to Nina's parents 
begging forgiveness, and after some delay, occa- 
sioned by the lack of attention on the part of ''Cen- 
tral," the pardon was granted. Ma and Pa drove 
over to the castle and bossed things when the young 
couple went to Europe. 

And the Prince loved Nina and his inlaws, and 
the sun never set on their happiness. 

This was in the good old days. Nowadays if you 
play one set of tennis in a field, men turn from your 
peeling face. And if you be poor, though you be 
ever so beautiful, it's — well, it's your own fault. 
The fairy prince of the silk kimono marrieth the 
princess of the silk kimono and the man of the 
overalls he also marrieth the girl of the silk ki- 
mono. Nay, there is no one for you, Cinderella, 
except him of the crusty disposition. With this 
must ye be content ! 



B 



THE CLAUSES 

Once upon a time a woman of powerful learning 
proclaimed herself complete mistress of English as 
it should be spoken. She was a graduate of college 
and could write hieroglyphics with a hairpin. Her 
mother could not prevail upon her to give up her 
studies and become instead a Bringer-Up-of-Chil- 
dren. When the kind lady addressed her daughter 
on this subject, the girl would fly into a rage and 
cry, "Noun, pronoun, verb, adjective forever!" 
Then she would carve on the mantelpiece a simple 
declarative sentence. 

Of course all this soon upset her mother and she 
worried night and day. 

One evening the father, returning from the 
forum, drew his wife aside and whispered in her 
ear, "To-day I met a fine fellow whose diction is 
unsurpassable and who I think will some day become 
Emperor of this state." 

"Oh," cried the wife, "let's invite him to dinner!" 
And the future Emperor was as good as captured. 

Billee, that was our student's name, examined 
every word he uttered at the table, but always did 
he put the correct clause in the correct place. Billee 
felt that she certainly could live happily in the at- 
mosphere of this youth who abhorred the use of 



jFa6le0 for tfte Jftitoolous 



*'aint." They were married and not long after 
were blessed beyond everything when Billee pub- 
lished a book of rhetoric, the royalties from which 
supplied them both with luxuries galore. 

This was in the good old times ! Nowadays, even 
if your friends at college call you Billee instead of 
Elvira, and even if you are a double q in English 
you cannot exist by swallowing words, so select 
you as a mate one who can write, no matter how 
badly, several figures and a short sentence on a 
bank check, for the Price of Eggs is High and 
Butter is healthier than oleomargarine ! 



B 



THE FROST KING 

Blanketed in a robe of handsome openwork hail, 
King Cynic, seldom budging from his comfort- 
able throne of ice, ruled the lost tribe of Snow 
Images. He was cold and heartless, but his people 
considered him a clever monarch and all lauded his 
stem and set principles. 

He was a scoffer at women and earned the alias 
of The Frost King. The most attractive Salome 
cavorters of the age performed their intricate exe- 
cution steps before him and, though some deserved 
praise, King Cynic remained the stoic, never even 
as much as watching the performers. 

As in an apathy, he brooded. Nothing inter- 
ested him. No beauty of Nature could awaken him. 
No sign of ecstasy did he reveal at the sight of his 
sumptuous wine repasts. He ruled, ate, slept and 
drank in a trance, and outside of snickering at his 
own laws, was never seen to smile. 

The women of the land were tired of hearing 
about him and his peculiar ways, and none of them 
had any desire to be his bride. 

Nearly every tribe requires a queen as well as a 
king. A married man at the head of a nation is 
less domineering. King Cynic, at forty, had never 
winked at a lady of quality nor bowed to a beggar 

9 



jFa6le0 for tbt JFtitJOlous 



maid. Nevertheless, his subjects did not give up 
hope. The Prime Minister reassured the Cabinet 
with : "Our King is at a dangerous age, for the 
older they grow the younger they select them." 

This satisfied everybody and they looked for sal- 
vation from another sphere when youthful Sonoma 
Sweet sallied forth from the city of Springtime to 
visit her cousin of cooler clime. 

The wind and sleet were too much for the gentle 
girl bred in the lap of summer and she was com- 
pelled to replace her flowing garments with a sack 
of seal. All the coats in the place came from the 
skins of the King's own trained animals. 

It was while buying her jacket that Sonoma met 
Cynic. With all her wiles she endeavored to fas- 
cinate him. His ascetic face soon became wreathed 
in jolly lines. He tossed aside his pessimistic pose 
and bathed in the sunshine of her smile. 

He courted her with precious icicles and let her 
have at wholesale price another seal coat. He 
finally, in a rash moment, engaged himself to her 
and, with the presenting of the ring, asked for a 
kiss — his first kiss! 

As he drew near for reward his icy breath froze 
Sonoma's red, red lips, and, after having heard so 
much about the heat of love, the King received only 
a cold chill. 

He turned scoffer again and turned Sonoma 
down. She, sensibly, forgot all about him and went 
back to her sunny home and married the stoker on 
her father's yacht. 

This was in the bygone days. Nowadays women 
n^ver get tired of cynics, for they are the easiest to 

lO 



jFa6Ie0 for ttie JFriUolous 



catch. And if one should jilt you, you do not for- 
get him nor do you let him forget you, but hasten 
to a man of law, where you sue for the cynic's 
money, which you have no chance of getting. 

A cynic is a man who thinks he is well armed 
against woman, but suddenly finds the arms around 
his neck! 



II 



THE WEEPING BEAUT¥ 

There once dwelt, in the ancient Kingdom of 
Tiers, a young widow who was renowned far and 
wide for the grave and deep manner in which she 
bemoaned the loss of her only husband. Noble 
men, gallant men, fond lovers all, knocked daily at 
her door but received no response. They would 
linger listening to her sobs, each secretly wishing 
that he might have been the one to die and so have 
such a thing of loveliness weep for him. 

The days of the widow's grief were of great 
length. 

After many moons she stepped from her lone- 
some home out into the world of sunshine. The 
undaunted suitors clustered around her, madly 
seeking a glance, a smile, a word. 

The widow, gazing high above their heads, rested 
her eyes, softened by sighing, upon "Best Catch.'' 
So wonderful was her magnetic power that she im- 
mediately created a burning fire in his broad chest. 

He pleaded for her hand in early marriage and 
she consented, telling him frankly, though he was 
not her first love, the memory of whom would never 
be effaced, she liked him. He was satisfied, for he 
longed to comfort her, and surely she had need of 
comfort. 

12 



JFa6Ie0 for tftejFritooIouisi 



The entire life of this fortunate prince was spent 
in reconciHng his wife to the fate of her previous 
bid. The widow clung to him, a tender vine which 
grew more fragrant with every fall of dew. 

This was in the good old times. Nowadays, if 
you cry for any man save the one to whom you are 
talking, you will never take a walk down a certain 
aisle wearing dull cream and Irish lace, for in this 
age of chivalry, man laugheth at the crocodile, say- 
ing, "Away, thou of the red nose and swollen eye- 
lids." 

The Weeping Beauty of bygone days must have 
had a specially prepared cold cream. Since she has 
taken the formula with her, grin you in the faces 
of all men and hear them call you '^olly little 
devil." 



13 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

In search of a helpmate, the King of the Mystic 
Isles heralded a proclamation promising to wed the 
woman who could sing to his complete satisfaction 
in the key of high G. Since the King was hand- 
some, wealthy and lovable, the poor musicians of 
the land who were previously starving suddenly 
found themselves besought by multitudes of am- 
bitious feminine pupils, young and old. Signor 
Bai'ytone, the least expensive teacher, shut his gar- 
ret door and embarked upon a sea of luxury. 

On the day of the competition the gates of the 
palace were flung wide at eight o'clock and many a 
maiden scampered through, some fearing to be too 
late, some foo early. The King meanwhile had re- 
gretted his impulsive step toward matrimony. He 
arose not until eleven, going to the audience halls 
much later and very timidly. 

Now, he had taken a wise precaution. In each 
ear he had stuffed a tiny ball of soft, white cotton, 
thus deadening his hearing. Judge him not! The 
contestants sang, shrieked, or howled as the case 
chanced to be, and the King, reading from the ex- 
pressions on the face of his Prime Minister, could 
tell which were the most heartrending voices. 

The King's complacent and easy air gave bound- 

14 



Jfa61e0 tot tbt JFtiDolausf 



less hope to each chanter. The last songstress, a 
pretty girl, though shabbily attired, issued a soul 
piercing cry. The Prime Minister was stricken 
deaf and bowed his head out of pity for her and 
himself. But the King wrongly appraised this act 
as one of emotion. He applauded uproariously and 
went wild with delight, for the beauty of this song- 
bird pleased him beyond music. 

After dismissing the sorrowing and indignant 
losers, the King proposed to the poor maid, calling 
her, "My Nightingale." The Prime Minister, still 
deaf and thankful for the affliction, thought one 
would do as well as another and complimented the 
King upon his choice. Somehow the new consort 
never attempted to raise her voice in song again, 
and the King never thought to ask her, having for- 
gotten all his other troubles, once married. 

This was in the good old days. Nowadays any 
voice is enchanting to the man anxious to wed, for 
he deadens his imagination. All women seem allur- 
ing to the tired business bachelor as they sing 
"Home, Sweet Home," and a ragtime ditty off the 
key of high G maketh every one wild. 



IS 



JACK^S BEANSTALK 

During the reign of King X., Jack, his son and 
heir prospective after twenty-one years of waiting, 
attained his majority. Though handsome of face 
and of sturdy form, he did not stand knee high to 
a grasshopper. 

Over this shortness of length Jack fretted con- 
siderably, for while on shooting expeditions some 
one was always bound to hurt his feelings by mis- 
taking him for game. Never a favorite with the 
courtiers, he lost all chance of being well liked when 
he came of age, and his father ordered general 
fasting for four days in honor of the occasion. 

Wishing to gain the good graces of his hungry 
future subjects, he tried hard to hit upon a way 
which would establish a better reputation for him. 
He concluded were he to wed a tall maiden every 
one would look up to her and through this display 
of taste he might be the recipient of awe and ad- 
miration. 

So he decided to marry a princess of high rank. 
She made up plentifully the height which he lacked. 
Slender, very tall and graceful, she towered over 
him. Opposites attracting, they agreed to love, 
honor and obey. 

It seemed to Jack that he could never repay his 

i6 



Jfa6le0 for tbt jrritoolou0 



wife for the notoriety she brought upon him, and 
the united kingdom rose up and proclaimed him 
the first eugenist, for his offspring, an heir, was 
neither too short nor too tall — just a happy medium. 
This was in the good old days ! Nowadays, when 
a tall, slender girl marries a man shorter than her- 
self she takes off the heels of her shoes and he adds 
them to his, both fearful lest their friends cry out, 
"There goes Jack and his beanstalk." During this 
the reign of $, folks think the word "eugenic" is 
the cue to laugh and the word "obey" in the binding 
ceremony has been changed to "Oh! pay." 



17 



A PATIENT GRISELDA 

Griselda, fair to see, wrote poetry for a living 
in the turret of her father's castle. Hour by hour 
she ticktacked on her typewriter, stopping reluc- 
tantly when darkness came. 

With a glance of anguish at an unfinished heart 
throb she would prepare for the arrival of her cava- 
lier. She could hear in the distance the familiar 
clank of his sample Gazump car, and, leaning o'er 
her balcony, she would toss down her ravings, the 
accomplished work of that day. 

The castle stood high and the prince had a long 
trip ahead of him. To save time he read Griselda's 
latest sonnets on the way up his ladder and scrib- 
bled across them notes of criticism. 

This especial evening Prince Alarming rode into 
the palace grounds, noticeably peeved and wearing 
a sulky frown. The folio came circling down and 
lay unheeded on the mildewed grass. 

The Prince wearily mounted the ladder which led 
to Griselda's window. She watched his progress, 
saw him doze now and then as he paused for rest 
on every sixtieth rung. At last he reached his des- 
tination, but at once took leave, for it would be late 
indeed when he again touched terra firma. "I will 

i8 



jFa6Ie0 for tfte 5ritoolou0 



send a message some time this week, Grissy," he 
cried, and was off with a parting kiss. 

Griselda waited all week for the message, which 
failed to come. A month passed and Griselda, suf- 
fering in silence, acquired the art of being patient. 

Then the King's son returned. **Griselda," he 
commenced breathlessly, "I have been trying to 
keep away from your poetical presence, as my fond 
parents wish me to wed Princess Butterfly, an empty 
headed, shallow girl; but a woman of brains for 
mine !" He flung wide his arms and Griselda came 
into her own. 

This was in the good old days. Nowadays when 
one writes poetry one does not receive from it a 
living or anything else. And when ''he" promises 
to send you a message and for some reason does 
not, restrain yourself you cannot, and in no time 
find yourself saying, "Give me Bryant 60 some- 
thing." 

Nowadays they never come back and the butter- 
fly flourishes in goodly crop. 



19 



THE TWO COLORS 

The sun sank and the last streak of crimson 
flooded the white sky. The medicine man ran up 
the shppery steps of the marble palace and was met 
by an aproned duchess who placed her fingers warn- 
ingly to her lips. The medicine man tip-toed past 
her. 

Later, the same duchess rustled through a long 
corridor, which led to the king's private audience 
room. ^'Henry," she whispered, rapping on the 
door, "it's a girl." 

All of this unnerved the king, for he had been 
looking forward to an heir, perhaps a thin and 
ghastly one, but just the same, an heir! 

The baby bore the name of Snow White and Rose 
Red, because of the brilliant color surmounting her 
alabaster cheeks. Her mother attributed the child's 
complexion to the fact that she first appeared at 
sunset and the sky was now reflected in the baby's 
face. Black hair, dark as night, only offset the 
mother's pretty superstition. 

Snow White at eighteen, the ideal of woman- 
hood, in order to preserve her noted skin, indulged 
in frequent walks, strenuous exercises and whole- 
some food. No one could compete with her for 
delicacy of feature and development of form. Fond 

20 



jFa6Ie0 for tf)e jFntioIou0 



of sports, she would ramble through thicket and 
thorn, were it necessary, to procure the healthiest 
air. 

Standing before her cheval glass, she often asked : 
"Oh, delight of my heart, reflector of my grace, 
is there anywhere a maiden lovelier than I?" 
Strange to say, the mirror never answered, and, 
satisfied. Snow White spent her days in peace. 

She was as good as she was beautiful. For in- 
stance, to prove her honesty, here is an incident, 
recited by herself when she reached home : 

During a sprint one day she espied a small packet 
and a tiny box in the road. She bent — ^bending is 
good for the hips — and, picking up her find, pro- 
ceeded to open it. The words 'Vice powder" on the 
cover conveyed nothing. A soft, flaky substance 
spilled out. Remembering the "powder" part. Snow 
White became frightened and, thinking it an ex- 
plosive, tossed it away and turned her attention to 
the box labelled "Milady Rouge." 

Inside this she discovered a mound of red. Blush- 
ing, she cried : "This scarlet signifieth my shame 
for having in my possession that which does not be- 
long to me!" She dropped the box remorsefully 
and, thankful for her escape from theft, remained 
from that day on always upright. 

This was in the olden, golden days. There's been 
a slight change since that time, and nowadays maid- 
ens strive to be nose white and cheeks red. They 
are again fond of sports, and, though rice powder 
is called "my best friend," a box of rouge still 
creates a blush ! 



2T 



THE GLASS SLIPPER 

It may have been on Mars; at any rate, some- 
where there was once a select school for debutante 
princesses where the blossoming daughters of roy- 
alty received the education which finished them. It 
was conducted by the best fairies on the planet and 
consisted of a practical study of domestic science. 
One could learn how to preserve pickles, how to 
distinguish cotton voile from cotton muslin and 
how to dress. 

Most of the lessons were devoted to the latter 
subject, and each princess endeavored to outdo her 
sister in the selection of attractive garments. 

Just before graduation the principal fairy offered 
a prize in the form of a pair of dainty, shell pink 
tango slippers, size No. i, which were to be pre- 
sented to the princess whose feet they fitted per- 
fectly. 

The pupils immediately began dieting. They sent 
over to their respective homes for their maids and 
nightly massage followed. 

Somehow there was much trouble and confusion 
over the awarding of the prize, for on commence- 
ment day the ankle touching gowns of the sweet girl 
graduates revealed only the tiniest feet imaginable. 
The result was that the slippers were too large for 

22 



jFatile0 for tht Jfritiolou0 



any member of the class and had to be turned over 
to the janitress of the building. 

All the young ladies were very much disap- 
pointed, but they had some satisfaction in knowing 
that more than one Duke looked at their shapely feet 
in admiration. A small foot was considered the 
essence of aristocracy, and a high, curving arch 
told of blue blood within. 

This was in the olden, golden days. Nowadays, 
when a course at a young ladies' college seems to 
consist of coarse athletics, we see our modern maid- 
ens running sixty mile races in two seconds and 
hurdling bars in the school gymnasium. We see 
our modern maidens tramping through the country 
on fresh air trips and tramping to Washington on 
other fresh trips. 

To perform these new stunts one must have a 
good understanding, and the largest foot is the 
greatest feat of all. 



23 



JACQUES, THE LADY-KILLER 

Once upon a time when every day was Sunday 
and no one had fears of blue Mondays and empty 
pay envelopes, Jacques sang at the pleasure of King 
Kipper in the auditorium of his magnificent palace. 
Far into the summer nights, when the hall was 
stifling with hot air, Jacques would unburden his 
soul to a host of diamond-bedecked heads and necks 
that craned from pearl dog collars in order to ob- 
tain a better view of the young minstrel. 

The ladies-in-waiting were all madly in love with 
him. Though Jacques was partial to blondes, and 
such were they all, he could not find one among 
them so appealing that he felt he could stand her 
around all the time. 

So the ladies-in-waiting waited in vain and 
Jacques threw his eyes to the heavens as if in search 
of an angel, and sang on, to the distress of the 
King's only child. Princess Kipper. She, too, loved 
Jacques, but not obviously. Jacques never looked 
her way. He was too proud to stoop to marry 
even royalty where he did not love. 

Finally, as the moon bade adieu to its last quarter, 
Jacques flipped his, and it fell "heads," which de- 
cided for him that he should give up his career of 
yodelling for one more lucrative. 

24 



jFa6!e0 for tbt jFriUolou0 



When the word spread around the court that 
Jacques was going to depart, the ladies-in-waiting 
sank unconscious, one and all. But Jacques reso- 
lutely skipped. He had hardly walked a yard when, 
hearing heavy footsteps behind, he turned, to see 
frail little Kipper running in his wake. His heart 
melted at the sight of her curly locks so tousled 
from pursuit. 

Beckoning with his chamois gloved finger, he 
sang in F major. "O silly little Kipper, why do you 
follow so worthless a fellow? If you stay at home 
you will soon become Queen!" 

At this the Princess appeared frightened. 

*What! Hast poisoned my papa?" she asked. 
Jacques hid his face at the very suggestion and the 
Princess was soon tight in his grasp comforting 
him. 

Hand in hand, they strolled over hill and dale. 
Coming to the next kingdom, they were married 
and settled down to efface the memory of their 
past. Little Kipper made all their clothes and 
Jacques would hie himself to the woods for food. 
Here he would think deep thoughts over his ill- 
fitting home-made garments. In consequence of 
which he realized he had committed a great crime 
and sent his wife speedily back to her father. 

King Kipper was so pleased by this self-sacrific- 
ing act on the part of his son-in-law that he dubbed 
him knight and promised him a home within the 
castle walls, as he put it, **till the foundation stones 
shall break away!" 

This was in the good old days. Nowadays, gen- 
tlemen, if you wear chamois gloves and make al- 

25 



jFa6le0 for tfte jFritioIou0 



luring gestures at queens, there is no doubt that 
you will be rewarded with a suitable drubbing and 
the chances are the stones will break and you will 
break them! 



29 



KNIGHT AND LADY 

Sir Richard was as bold a knight as ever claimed 
a crest, and never flashed a silver shield upon a 
broader breast. He fought in many frightful wars, 
then joined the Templar force, and doing so, as per 
the rules, could never wed of course. Descended 
from a fine, old branch of famous churchmen, he 
was only doing credit to his ancient family. 

While marching forth to war one day he sadly 
chanced to meet a charming maid in bonnet blue of 
mien and contour sweet. He bade farewell to 
sacred oaths, he threw aside his mask, *T wish to 
be a man," said he, *'to love is all I ask." 

Sir Richard mortal in a way, set to and died at 
last. That was five hundred years ago. Five cen- 
turies have passed. 'Tis time for Dick to incar- 
nate ! He comes to light again, this life reversed, a 
maiden he, with curly, golden mane. 

Oh! nowadays, Sir Richard has evolved into a 
wife. He is thusly doing penance for the wrongs 
of his last life ! Sir Richard lifts his skirts at mice 
and mounts the nearest chair. Sir Richard once so 
worthy never pays his bills or fare. For he has 
clean forgotten all the days of fiery steeds. He 
rides about in limousines and wears grass widow 

27 



jFa6Ie0 for tfte jFritJOIou0 



weeds. He's really quite unconscious of the time 
of long ago and even has the pseudonym of Flor- 
ence, often Flo. 

Sir Richard was as bold a knight as ever charged 
a spear and now he is as meek a maid as ever felt a 
fear. Yet, so they vow, come Judgment Day if you 
will only wait, not strong, nor frail. Sir Richard- 
Flo will be proportionate. 

This tale of long ago and now might fully well 
expound the reason why on some men's wrists their 
clocks are bound around, and why some women 
nowadays must dress and act like men. It's re-crea- 
tion — ^that is all, nine cases out of ten. 



28 



THE LITTLE MATCH-MAKER 

*Twas New Year's Eve! The boulevards lay 
glistening in the winter moonlight liice ever so many 
cakes of frozen ice. Inside the castle it was cold, 
cold, cold ! Though seven men had lent a hand and 
loads of advice, and though loads of coal had been 
used, the furnace refused to work. 

The Princess of the frosty palace did not feel the 
bitterness, she was too warm-hearted. She flit- 
tered about tying mistletoe here and there, smiling 
to herself as she saw in vision some gay prince 
clasp and kiss his favorite lady 'neath the twig of 
licensed privilege. 

Soon the expected guests would arrive and the 
decorated walls of the castle would resound with 
the holiday laughter of young and old. Suddenly 
the Princess was swept by a slight breeze, and, call- 
ing down the speaking tube, she begged John "to 
do something with the furnace!" John apparently 
had done something to the furnace and no one 
seemed to be able to right his wrong. 

The alarm clock buzzed seven and the first couple 
put in their appearance. ''They have come to sup- 
per," thought the Princess. Following came others 
unto a hundred, and none noticed the lack of heat, 
so warmly were they received. 

29 



Jfa61c0 (or tfte Jfntjolou0 



They played games and minuetted. After a gen- 
erous spread the Princess slyly pointed out the mis- 
tletoe and bade the gentlemen enjoy themselves. 
What a little matchmaker ! 

With bright eyes and rosy cheeks she wat hed, 
without the least sign of jealousy, every gir^ iend 
kissed; aye, thrice! As is the rule, the men forgot 
their hostess, but she was lost in the happiness of 
all around her. Besides, she was already engaged 
to be married to a traveling bard. 

Will you believe that every unmarried prince 
found a mate that night, and some were very awk- 
ward osculators? 

This was in the good old times. Nowadays most 
men would prefer to face death by hanging from 
a sycamore than to face a young lady beneath a 
sprig of mistletoe. Nowadays no girl is ever lost 
in the happiness of those around her, no matter 
how safely engaged to a traveling salesman. Match- 
makers are found in heaven, and the safest match 
is made in one's own parlor. 



30 



A LAD AND HIS WONDERFUL LAMPS 

Nahu, a pleasant lad, of peasant parentage, 
planted potatoes in the conservatories of the Queen. 
Unnoticed and uncomplimented by any, he shot 
from shy boyhood into strong, stalwart manhood. 
The sun, shining down relentlessly, had turned the 
tips of his brown hair to burnished gold, and his 
large eyes were deep, dark and beautiful. 

It was the habit of the Queen, as she was unmar- 
ried, to oversee her land. Daily she would inspect 
the farms, for potatoes were a luxury, and she could 
not trust them in the hands of servants — which gen- 
erally meant in their mouths. 



LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 

One evening as the Queen made a last round of 
the potato patch she came across Nahu, bowing def- 
erentially. His hair mystified her by its many 
shades, and his eyes, suddenly uplifted to hers, 
caused her to press her hand to her thumping heart. 

So unsuppressed was her admiration for the 
young man that Nahu, receiving open flattery for 
the first time, was frightened. Seating himself on 
the garden plow, he went rapidly home. The 

31 



jFatiIe0 for tfte jFtitiolous; 



Queen, behind the sash of her window, could only 
see his retreating shoulders, but the expression of 
his innocent eyes was marked indelibly on her heart. 
While at work the following day Nahu, trem- 
bling still from his first compliment, received a mes- 
sage which read : "Oh, lad of the wonderful eyes, 
come let them be as lamps to guide me through 
life. Meet me at yonder registrar's office.'' It was 
signed by the royal pen. Nahu, grasping the situa- 
tion, lost his wits and sped in the direction oppo- 
site the designated tryst. 



A WITCH IN DISGUISE 

An owl in a tree — ^really a witch in disguise — 
realizing the young man's desire to escape, hooted 
out as he ran by : "Too-whit, too-whoo, too-why ; 
I would that you were I !" Immediately Nahu was 
transformed into an owl, and found himself in a 
leafy bower, blinking down at the witch, who was 
making ready to sail away in her airship. So Nahu 
never again was flattered for the beauty of his orbs. 
He can only use them at night. For revenge he 
hooted all his days 'neath the window of the Queen 
and disturbed her slumber. 

This was in the olden, golden days! Nowadays 
the only lamps that attract a modern queen are the 
road lights on a motor car. If, these days, a maiden 
flatter a man, he will not hoot at her in return. Nay ! 
But like a hungry dog he will nose around for 
more ! 



32 



BROKEN THREADS 



THE OPERATION 

You are a little girl again. Do you object to 
traveling back so far? It is nearing summer and 
you are becoming restless. Teacher notices it from 
her desk. You have been wriggling, twisting and 
turning all day. Reading from a primer and recit- 
ing ''pints and quarts" isn't half as much fun as 
skipping a rope or rolling a hoop. 

To make matters worse, you have a loose tooth 
bothering you. Your tongue keeps knocking 
against it and hurting you. Why was school in- 
vented, anyway, and why was this one built directly 
opposite a field of wild daisies, that sing merrily, 
*'Come and pluck us?" 



CAUGHT IN THE ACT 

Prim Elizabeth, who sits across the aisle from 
you, is in total ignorance of the fact that your 
tooth is ripe and ready to fall. She is the only girl 
in the class you neglected to tell. Though seven 
years old, she still retains her baby teeth, so to make 
her envious you are aching to whisper about that 
one of yours. 

Teacher is explaining at the blackboard how to 

35 



iFa6Ie0 for tfte iFritooIous 



draw queer people, with a line for their bodies and 
a circle for heads. As well as you can recollect, 
you have never seen their equal in human shape. 
It is stupid of Teacher and it is stupid listening to 
her. You decide it is a good chance to speak to 
Elizabeth. 

Sliding to the side of your bench nearest the aisle 
you purse your lips. Like an all-seeing power 
Teacher sees your every move. She must have 
eyes in the rear of her head, for she sees you now! 
Pausing in her task, she beckons to you and you 
walk reluctantly to the front of the room. Teacher 
waits patiently until you are very close to her. Her 
eyes express great mortification felt for you. 
"Alice," she commands, "leave the room and re- 
move whatever you have in your mouth." 

How can she be so unreasonable, you wonder, as 
to expect you to extract a tooth? "I haven't any- 
thing in my mouf," you begin, but she interrupts 
you with, "Don't tell me. I have seen you chewing 
on something all afternoon." 

You are stunned. The pupils who know your 
secret laugh aloud and Teacher, appearing much 
annoyed, orders you to your place, and hurrying 
back, you bury your face in your arms, thus escap- 
ing the rest of the lessons. 

• After dismissal you rush home with your tale of 
woe to Mother and beg her to put an end to your 
misery. She seems pained at the idea, but your pain 
is physical. You don't tell her so in just those 
words, but you moan. Mother, trembling lest she 
should harm you, ties a piece of coarse thread into 
a loop, which she lassoes around the wiggly object. 

36 



ifafile^ for tfie jFntioIou0 



The other end of the thread she fastens to the door- 
knob, suddenly looming up like a cannon ball. 

You close your eyes and Mother leaves you alone. 
From the hall outside she calls, *'Ready?" You 
gulp, '*Yes." Mother pulls the door to with a bang. 
You hear a snap. The thread has broken! You 
guide your tongue to the familiar spot and behold ! 
The hateful thing is still there. The thread has 
tangled and Mother returning condoles with you. 



IT IS ALL OVER 

Grasping the remaining strand and summoning 
all her courage, she tugs hard and presently you 
hear, *'Out she comes !" You open your eyes, feel- 
ing like a new and important person. You run for 
a drink of water and it is all over. 

But the broken threads have commenced and 
you are doomed to be their victim. That first one 
hung from the doorknob nearly a week before you 
remembered to take it to school as an exhibit of 
marvel, sewing cotton No. 40! Does it still lie in 
the old trash basket where Teacher threw it when 
you endeavored to show it to Elizabeth, I wonder. 



Z7, 



THE FIRST DANCE 

"Dick/' whom you like better than any young 
man you know, has invited you to accompany him 
to his "frat hop." You are seventeen, just returned 
from boarding school and more unsophisticated 
than the average. Your face is sweet, your limbs 
supple and young, and your hair streams in soft 
curls over your erect shoulders. Your forehead is 
smooth and the clear side part in your coiffure gives 
to you a winsome, boyish look. Just the same you 
cannot see why "Dick" selected you. Manly 
"Dick," so full of honest fun, so popular and so 
handsome. This last strikes you with a pang. 

Your snowy coverlet is strewn with dresses and 
you and mother are sorting out which dress you 
could possibly wear to the dance. She holds your 
last year's pink mull to the light and you make a 
wry face. Mother smiles kindly and tosses it aside. 
Now comes your white dimity. A mean thought 
that both mother and the dimity are old-fashioned 
creeps into your head. Well, after all, the dimity 
is less out of style than the rest, and you suggest a 
new sash. Mother shows you how to let down the 
hem. She cannot do it for you ; she must go to the 
smaller children, and as she departs she says, "You 
really need a new dress, Alice." You wince and 

38 



jFa6Ie0 for tfie JFtitooIou0 



exclaim, "Why, I've my pink " then you stop. 

Not because you cannot name another color, but 
for the first time you notice that mother looks tired 
and her hair is turning gray. You hate to acknowl- 
edge it and your lips tighten as the needle flies in 
and out of the dimity. 



THE HAPPY EVENING ARRIVES 

The happy evening arrives, and "Dick" appears 
punctually, bringing a bouquet of pink roses, which 
miraculously match your ribbons. As he assists 
you with your wrap his hands linger on your shoul- 
ders for an instant. Then your face flushes and you 
ask, "Shall we go?" 

The floor is crowded and the dancing has already 
started. You and "Dick" have walked. He hands 
you a booklet, but you have not the strength to turn 
the cardboard cover. You have suddenly grown 
cold, for, as you glance about you, no one is danc- 
ing the way you have been taught. "Dick," you 
begin in a shaky voice, "what is this?" And "Dick" 
answers pleasantly, "This is a trot. Will you try 
it?" You drop your fan. The latest dances have 
reached Darveyville ! You mumble something that 
sounds like "clumsy," but "Dick" has his arm 
around your waist and is whirling off with you. 

You stumble. You hop. Somebody giggles and 
you stand stark still. Another couple dash upon 
you and you gaze at "Dick" pleadingly. "Let's sit 
it out," he says, and, taking your arm, leads you, 
your sash untied and trailing. A prancing man 

39 



Jfa61e0 (or tU jFritoolous 



steps on it and dress and ribbon are torn badly. 
"Dick" leads you to a quiet spot, and you can do 
nothing but finger your dress, crimson of face and 
faint at heart. "Dick" tells you not toQnind and he 
watches the dancers absently. You feel you have 
disgraced him and you might as well let him have 
some enjoyment, so you let him understand that 
he may take you home and come back later. He 
accepts this with such alacrity that you could cry 
heartily. 

You both go out into the lovely summer night. 
"Dick" intimates that he would rather walk. You 
think him ashamed to be seen with you even in the 
old village carry-all. He is talkative and you find 
yourself laughing against your will. Everything 
seems dreamy and faraway, including "Dick," and 
you distinguish his voice as from the distance, 
gently arguing. You listen. "And, if you care, 
you will wait for me until I am established in busi- 
ness." This is most of what you gather. You 
seem to be riding on a cloud. "Dick" takes your 
silence for bashful consent and he has kissed you, 
and then again. Soon you can hear his whistle far 
down the road. You lean dizzily on the garden 
gate and the lawn comes up to meet you. 



A TELEPHONE CALL 

The next day you do not tell mother, for you 
think "Dick" is fooling and you blush for shame at 
the liberty you allowed him unprotestingly. You 
are mending the torn sash and many times you prick 

40 



jFa6Ie0 for tf)e jTniJOIons 



your fingers. The telephone bell rings sharply. 
How queer at this time of the afternoon. You con- 
clude that it is father, who is anxiously asking 
about the baby's croup. You jerk your thread hard 
and mother calls, "Alice.'' Your heart pounds and 
you give a violent pull at the thread and it breaks ! 
You run down the stairs. 

As from the distant shore, just like the night be- 
fore, you discern "Dick's" voice : "Why, of course. 
I meant every word I said, dear ; have you told your 
mother?" 

You haven't, but you will. Oh, you will! 



4r 



ENGAGED 

In two months you are to be married to Richard. 
You are so engrossed, head of fluffy hair bent over 
your neat sewing, that you do not know that I am 
talking about you. There will be a finely stitched 
initial on all your household linen. Doesn't it seem 
pretty as you twist the last end of the difficult let- 
ter? It isn't difficult? That is because you are 
really writing "love" with a needle. 

You are guessing what Dick is doing at this very 
moment. Will he put through that sale ? Will you 
be able to take that trip abroad, and will the worry 
wrinkle on his brow jump overboard during the 
journey? You hope it will. 

The door opens and a friend, a girl your own 
age, slips in and confronts you without your having 
heard. She admires your work and allows you to 
continue while she relates bits of local gossip of no 
interest to you. She tells you that "Jeanne and Ted 
are engaged (poor Ted!), and that Mrs. Eldridge 
is crazy about the young minister." Mrs. Eldridge 
was once your Sunday school teacher. 

UNPLEASANT GOSSIP 

Something compels you to look squarely at your 
friend. She bows her head and takes your sewing, 

42 



jFa6Ie0 fat tfie jFritooIous 



running her fingers over the embossed initial. "I 
don't Hke to be the one to break the news," she be- 
gins, and you resume your work, ''but mother saw 
Dick in New York yesterday dining with a beauti- 
ful woman." Your needle slips and your thread 
tangles. You wrench it, thinking to do away with 
the knot. The thread breaks and you are obliged 
to face your visitor. ''I guess I can trust Dick," 
you find yourself saying. 

You have forgotten to offer tea. You have for- 
gotten everything but what she said, and there is a 
film across your eyes. 

"It's none of my business, I suppose," continues 
the friend, speaking truthfully for once, ''but thaf s 
the sad part of long engagements with the girl liv- 
ing in the country and the man in town. There are 
so many alluring women !" She rises, plants a kiss 
on your warm cheek and departs quickly. 

Four hundred years pass before Dick comes that 
evening. He pats your cheek, still feverish, and 
tells you he has had two hard days of it. You do 
your best to remain cool and calm before your con- 
templated storm. He goes on to say that the city 
is roasting and buyers are crabbed cranks. 

THE EXPLANATION 

"What's a buyer?" you ask, ready to start the 
quarrel. Dick brightens perceptibly. You seldom 
seem interested in his business. 

"They buy our shirtwaists," he replies, only too 
ready to talk. "There was one yesterday. She 
was a widow and the wage earner for a family of 

43 



jFa6le0 for the JFtitioIousi 



four, rather handsome but shrewish. I had to take 
her to lunch after the sale, and she certainly knew 
a lot of things to order that she liked to eat! Her 
appetite must have killed her husband!" 

What is this ? You are laughing, or are you cry- 
ing? You know not which, but you just press your 
lips to the worry line on Dick's high forehead, brush 
back his hair and sob right down on his broad, 
strong shoulder. 



44 



MOTHERHOOD 

The baby has been ill all night. Your dear, little 
son is sick and you are fretting and waiting impa- 
tiently for the arrival of the grave, busy doctor. 
Your hands nervously clutch the white flannel petti- 
coat you are cat-stitching. The tiny form may 
never wear it. Your fingers grasp the goods vio- 
lently and you sew rapidly as if to finish it in time 
— in time for what ? The china clock with its grace- 
ful cherub ticks on and the baby breathes heavily. 
You can hear him plainly. Will the doctor never 
come ? 

A TRYING ORDEAL 

You put your sewing down and go to the win- 
dow. The day is warm and sultry and the wagons 
in the street rumble louder than ever. The baby 
cries faintly in his sleep and you walk quickly to 
the side of his crib. He has been with you three 
years, such happy years. He is quiet again, and 
you take up the petticoat. You have decided to 
scallop the flounce and it is nearly completed. 

You cannot sit still. You take another look at 
the baby and feel his forehead, over which one lock 

45 



jFa6Ie0 tot tfte jFritioIous 



of curly, damp hair hangs Hmply. The small brow 
is feverish. Then you sew, sew, sew! At every 
sound you raise your head. 

Finally, the bell rings. The doctor! No, the 
maid in cleaning the brasses has pressed the button. 
You call in a hushed voice that she will wake the 
baby. Of what consequence is the shining bell when 
it may soon be covered by 

The bell rings a second time. How careless Mary 
is! Your hands quiver and your thread tangles 
and knots. You drag it trembling. It snaps and 
the thread breaks. You are too excited to find an- 
other needle, but you haven't time, anyway, for the 
second ring brought the doctor. 



NOTHING SERIOUS 

He comes in softly and asks you all about the 
child. He smiles gently and doesn't seem at all 
perturbed. How can he care? It isn't his baby. 
He lifts a chubby wrist and looks closely at the 
round, dimpled face of your boy. You hear him 
whisper, "Measles, nothing serious." 

How relieved you are! You feel as though you 
could sink down at the doctor's feet. How much 
you have to live for! How much for which to be 
thankful! You run to the telephone to call up 
Dick. 

He has been sitting at his desk just for that 
message for the last half hour. "Hello, Dick?" you 
ask with a funny, choking laugh, "it's only measles, 
Dick, dear, and a very slight case." And Dick an- 

46 



4Fa6Ie0 for tU iFritJOlou0 



swers you, maybe rather brokenly, "The little ras- 
cal ! He takes after me. I had it four times !" 

And you can smile at this and you do. Dear 
Dick, who always tries to make you feel comfort- 
able and at ease, but what a fabrication! 



47 



A QUESTION OF DRESS 

Little Dick needs a new kilt. You have been in 
the habit of buying a few yards of velvet — in sum- 
mertime galatea — and from a pattern you have been 
cutting your boy's frocks. They have been trimmed 
with tiny pearl buttons and around the collars has 
been wide lace or pique. You have adopted this 
style because Richard with his fair hair reminds 
you so much of the child in a well-known painting 
you admire. 

You have just purchased some new material and 
you are spreading it out calculatingly on the dining- 
room table. Seriously you read the directions for 
making the little garment, and you pin the tissue 
paper pattern along a lengthwise fold of the goods. 
In no time you have back and front pieced together, 
and you commence basting. Pretty soon the sleeves 
shape themselves under your guidance and as you 
are preparing to turn up the broad cuff your door 
bursts open and, with a wild whoop, the fac-simile 
of the famous portrait enters. 

YOUR LITTLE BOY 

His hands and face are black. There is no dis- 
guising the latter, even though the former are 

48 



4fa6le0 for tfte Jfritiolous 



thrust behind his back. His cheeks are scratched 
and his corduroy coat badly torn. His knees peep 
defiantly through good-sized holes in his stockings. 

"Dick! Child!" you gasp; "where have you 
been?" 

The little fellow grins at you unabashed, reply- 
ing gleefully: 

"Over in the lot play in' ball, but the cop chased 
us." 

You long to put your fingers to your ears to shut 
out the slang and his hoarse voice. You would 
like to blind yourself to his ruffled clothes. 

"Dick," you say sweetly instead ; "come see what 
mother is making for you." 

Can it be that he gazes scornfully at your sewing 
as you take a fresh, large stitch with which to in- 
terest him? 

"Mother,'' he rests his rumpled head against 
yodrs, "could I have some pants? The boys guy 
me so!" 

You pause, astonished. Then you sew on in 
oblivion, just as if you had not heard. 

"Mother," he reiterates, "could I?" He pushes 
your elbow a trifle and your thread knots. You 
try to unravel it, but before your eyes floats a 
vision of little Dick in trousers. You pull your 
thread angrily, thinking, "Why must they grow 
up?" You tug at the sewing silk and it snaps. The 
thread is broken! 



49 



iFa6Ie0 for tfte ifritiolousi 



BABYHOOD AND BOYHOOD 

You smile at the smudged face of the small chap 
who is waiting so eagerly for your answer. "I'll 
think it over," you gradually murmur, and, gath- 
ering his chubby body in your arms you kiss over 
and over your baby — always your baby! 

After dinner you broach the subject of trousers 
for little Dick to big Papa Dick, who argues, "Well, 
it's about time. The lad should have had them five 
years ago." That settles it. And big Dick can 
hardly wait to take little Dick down town to buy the 
first suit. 

The next day little Dick stays home from school 
to go with Daddy, who stays home from business 
for the important undertaking of selecting the 
trousers. You stay home, too, and fondly fold up 
the unfinished frock, which you store away with 
the last lock of a certain sunny curl. 



50 



YOUR DAUGHTER'S WEDDING DAY 

It is your daughter's wedding day. The house is 
tingling with suppressed excitement. The wami 
sun streams through the long windows of your 
pretty country home. Yes, you who started so mod- 
estly, you have a country home. Life has been 
kind to you and you wonder if you can ever, ever 
be thankful enough. 



AN IMPATIENT BRIDEGROOM 

Grace, your little girl — for she will always be 
"little" tO' you — ^wished to be married "where it was 
quiet, near the trees and the birds," and, though 
Harry laughed and insisted on an earlier date, he 
finally gave in, and June was decided upon. You 
are sorry Harry was not satisfied. He grumbled 
a good deal and worried you and you thought how 
terrible it would be if he became very angry, and 
— anyway here was the day and almost the hour 
and Harry could never back out now. 

You look at yourself in the mirror and are satis- 
fied with the reflection. Your gray dress is soft 
and well made and you are sure you can meet his 

51 



iir-:?a**ifcit*. 



Jfa61e0 tot t&e jfrilioIou$ 



people with ease and comfort, regardless of the fact 
that they are very wealthy. 

Your younger sister, Emily, who never married, 
perhaps because she had dressed so many nervous 
brides, is upvStairs now fixing Grace's veil. You 
hope Grace will not turn pale, for color to her is 
essential. How can such trivial things occupy your 
mind at such a momentous time ? 

Dick, your husband, performing an acrobatic 
stunt with his collar, demands your help, and you 
turn your thoughts to him, your heart fluttering on. 

By four o'clock everyone is present. That is, 
every one save the bridegroom. There is your own 
tall son, Richard, beside the other Richard, your 
husband. The father resembles the son — he looks 
the younger. You marvel at the way he retains his 
smooth skin without the use of creams. There is 
Harry's mother. My! how she gushes. 

The minister arrives and still no Harry, but you 
feel perfectly confident, for the same thing hap- 
pened on your own especial day. Dick was late; 
why should Harry, not as perfect in a great many 
ways, be more punctual? Somehow the bubble of 
conversation sails out of the windows as the minis- 
ter enters, and an air of stifled expectancy settles 
over all. Why is Harry's father so white about, 
the mouth? The bright afternoon sun mellows, its 
first sign of fading. Where is Harry? 

Harry is dressing at the town inn. Harry is 
roaring and fuming, while Lawrence, his chum and 
quarterback on the college team, is endeavoring to 
fasten a narrow glove upon the bridegroom's broad 
hand. Lawrence plants his knee against Harry's 

52 



Jfa61e0 for tfie jFtitJolou^ 



arm and clasps the button. All is well. Harry slaps 
on his high silk hat, and Lawrence pins a flower 
upon his coat lapel. Harry is ready, he declares, 
and both fly down and into a waiting rig. 

Lawrence, fortunately, remembers to say the 
magic word, "Ring," just as they start. Of course, 
Harry has forgotten it. So he flies back and, know- 
ing where to find it, searches the whole room. He 
tosses all his clothes around and discovers it in his 
waistcoat pocket. He gives it a loving pat, then 
hears a snap and, trembling, glances at his glove. 
The button is trembling, too. He tries to wind the 
loose thread around the button, but he is clumsy and 
the thread breaks! 



A CATASTROPHE 

The button rolls and rolls. Harry says some- 
thing under his breath and he exchanges gloves 
with Lawrence. Lawrence is a very large man. 

Later, flurried and flushed, Harry joins you in the 
rose-scented drawing-room and you notice during 
the hush that the hand clasping the hand of the pale 
lovely bride wears a glove — oh ! how humiliating ! — ■ 
two sizes too big ! 



S3 



BON VOYAGE! 

When your tall son, Richard, endeavoring to 
persuade you to cross the great Atlantic, turns 
about and says that you are ''narrow," you set aside 
your petty fears and decide to take the trip, come 
what may, and your are positive it will. During 
the last year, the year following your daughter's 
marriage, you and your husband have fallen into 
a rut, but an ocean voyage, well, that will be "a sea 
change into something new and strange." 

Since every chair is covered and every curtain 
down, since every blind is drawn and every shutter 
thatched, there is nothing left to do but clap the 
lid of your new-fangled trunk, hold your breath and 
prepare for the worst. You are a sad little picture 
as you stand, hat awry, taking a last view of the 
dressed-up furniture, wondering whether each cre- 
tonne clothed piece feels as important as you. 

Actually off for Europe, the place that has seemed 
so far away, the make-believe place fashioned as 
an amusement park, so you imagine it. Your hus- 
band bustles in and announces the waiting taxi, and, 
catching up a grip, he hastens down the brownstone 
stoop. Your son half pushes you into the chugging 
cab. Your husband is shouting at the apparently 

54 



JFa6Ie0 for tfje jFntJolou0 



deaf chauffeur. The car jerks and starts forward. 
You drop back and sigh. 

Dick, Jr., is so enthusiastic, constantly coming 
down on his knee with a heavy fist. "England, 
London, Berlin, Paris, Life!" he cries. Your hus- 
band beams upon the youth and you make up your 
mind that you will never bring them both home 
wholly sensible and sane. Your head whirls. You 
are like a frightened bird. 

You are jostled rather than walking of your own 
accord, and soon find yourself on the gigantic 
steamer. Dick is satisfied that you "just made it!" 
Out of the hue and din comes Grace, your daughter. 
You are so glad! You think she has decided to 
join you at the last moment. No, she has only come 
to bid you a fond farewell. She clings to you and 
there is a shouted warning. Grace still clings. She 
always was so emotional! 

She clings this once because she cannot help her- 
self. A bit of lace from your waist has caught it- 
self in a brooch at her neck. She dare not rend 
herself asunder, lest she tear your blouse. A tiny 
stray thread has wound itself around the pin. You 
thrust her with all your force from you and the 
thread breaks! 

Off she scampers with her worried Harry, the 
last to leave the ship! She has wept plentifully, 
so you feel doomed. A million kerchiefs are flying 
in the breeze. A million black dots seem scurrying 
and scattering. The boat moves, though you hardly 
know it, and you are pleasantly disappointed at not 
feeling a trifle ill. 

You have already lost your men folks. They are 

55 



jFa6Ie0 for tfte jFnt)oIou0 



nowhere in sight. A stranger at your side turns 
a pale, tear-stained face to you, and asks you if you 
don't "feel awful," and you do as you try to pierce 
the fathomless depths of the green pool into which 
your heart just sank. 



■56 



A DAY IN THE COUNTRY 

Early in the spring, on a promising, mild day, 
you were in a promising mood, too, and told your 
grandchildren — Grace's daughter, Dorothy, aged 
seven, and Dick's sons, five and three — that you 
would soon take them on a "picanic," as they call 
it. You filled their tiny heads with sugar-coated 
visions of a basket party in the country, and they 
have been teasing you ever since. 



GOOD MEMORIES 

Children have poor memories when it comes to, 
"Where did you leave the scissors?" or, "Does 
mother's precious remember what he did with the 
machine bobbin?" But they always recollect where 
the sweets are to be found, and seldom, if ever, do 
they forget a promise or forgive a broken one. 

On a beautiful day in August you telephone to 
Grace and Harry, to Dick and Elise. (Elise, the 
French souvenir of Richard, Jr.'s tour abroad.) 
Grace is afraid the grass will be too damp and you 
can hear Harry pooh-poohing the idea at the other 
end of the wire. Grace consents, and Harry squeals 
joyously, running off to impart the jolly news to 

57 



Jfa61e0 for tfie jFritJoIou0 



his small daughter. Elise practically decides to 
dress the boys in their old clothes. 

The morrow shines bright, with not a cloud in 
the sky. At the designated hour you call for your 
grandchildren and their parents in your big, brown 
motor. The men, overgrown kiddies for the day, 
load the bottom of the car with wicker hampers and 
the enticing odor of dainty sandwiches and fruits 
pervades the tonneau. 

The youngsters' eyes are glowing with excite- 
ment. 

It is a long ride, and more than once the baby 
asks, ''How much longer, Gran'ma?" Dick makes 
you all laugh with his loving cajolery directed at 
Elise, as she rhapsodizes over the scenery, a pleas- 
ant vacation from figured nursery walls. 

Under a cluster of heavily leaved trees you finally 
draw up. On a soft grassy mound you spread a 
square, white cloth, and the luncheon is relished, 
even though Dick forces the cork into the olive 
bottle instead of taking it out. 

Afterward the real fun commences. Dick and 
Harry play leap-frog with the boys, while Grace's 
little girl wanders off to pluck flowers for you to 
twine into a wreath for her. Every now and then 
she finds a large one and with gurgles of ecstasy 
carries it across the fields. With forethought you 
brought a spool of thread, and as you arrange the 
wreath you wind the thread to hold it fast. 

When you were a tot the wreath would always 
fall apart and tumble down over your nose. You 
have used all the flowers on hand and Dotty fails 
to replenish you. Harry and the rest have walked 

58 



jFa6Ie0 for tfte Jfritiolous 



off to explore, so, shading your eyes against the 
midday sun, you look ahead. Through the thick 
grasses a breeze stirring wafts to you a feeble cry. 
You are startled, and as you rise, your knees shake. 
You hear the cry again and you call ''Help !" with 
all your might, bringing Harry at leaps and bounds 
to your side. You manage to say ''Dorothy." Har- 
ry begins a query and cuts short. See him speed 
over the ground and soon follow Dick, Elise and 
Grace, and the two tiny fellows, half falling as they 
race. Your throat seems bound by a tight band. 
If anything happens it's your fault, giddy, frolick- 
ing old lady! 

NOTHING HAPPENS 

But nothing happens — that is, nothing serious. 
Harry strides back with daughter Dorothy in his 
arms. "Where was she?" You clasp your hands 
and the child answers : "Stucked in the grass. Gran- 
ny, all wet and mushy." And Harry further ex- 
plains about "marshes," as you take the muddy 
bundle in your arms, crowning her with the wreath 
until she resembles a veritable Ophelia. 

But you forgot to separate thread from spool, 
and, as you crown the queen, there is a snip and 
a snap. The thread breaks and the flowers shower 
Dorothy and you! All your pains for nothing? 
Ah! no; for there is reward in the kiss that tastes 
of woodland fern. 



59 



THE LAST 

Old lady! don't you hear? Your feet on the 
fender are too near the warm coals. Why do you 
toast your toes in this way, and why have a grate 
fire flaming when it isn't nearly autumn yet? You 
feel chilly? After all, that is possible, since you 
were on your recent birthday — as much as that! 
Your husband will celebrate next month. I'll tell 
you how I found out. A little bird whispered that 
the wool in your trembling fingers will be a pair of 
slippers for your husband. You knit so slowly. 
Oh, I forgot about your left arm troubling you. 
Is it stiffness of the joints? From the heart, you 
think. Well, yours has been pulsing a long, long 
time. 

SHADOWS CREEPING 

The shadows are creeping stealthily into the 
room. They throw themselves in silent, fancy fig- 
ures across the carpet. Thomas pussy cat purrs at 
your skirt. Now he stretches himself before the 
blaze and meows lazily. As you work your ivory 
stick, you seem to live on happy thoughts. They 
must be pleasant recollections. It is growing grad- 
ually dimmer, and you must halt the making of the 

60 



UtetaHL^-tc^Mtf 



Jfa61e0 for tfte jFriUolous 



gift. Thomas leaps into your lap and cradles con- 
tentedly in your good "black silk." Thomas is fas- 
tidious. You stroke his furry coat with a with- 
ered, shaking hand. Your left arm tires quickly. 
You shouldn't use it, you know. But you are obsti- 
nate and, stroking, you doze and dream. 

You are off somewhere 'midst circling, singing 
birds, and through wild, waving trees you spy the 
red school with its flag rippling in the strong wind. 
A host of childish voices rise in gladsome praise, 
*^My Country, 'Tis of Thee." The scene swiftly 
changes, and you are carried over the speeding 
years. Music again! A burst of melodious, trium- 
phal song, and you recognize your wedding march ! 
But the faint cry of a babe, snuggling, nestling to 
your side, is the sweetest sound of all. You sigh 
and wake. The fire in the hearth has died, leaving 
the room still and cheerless save where those ashes 
of the past glow anew. 

Your husband snoozes. You ought to warn him 
that it is almost supper hour. There! you have 
moved too abruptly. A sharp pain catches and stays 
you. Thomas pussy cat notices your agony. He 
pricks his ears. He is frightened. You make a 
final, useless effort. The ball of wool, the uncom- 
pleted present, slides to the floor. The hurt leaves 
your heart. How very peaceful you feel. Sud- 
denly all weaving is over, and the slender thread 
of life breaks ! Broken threads ! You were doomed 
to be their victim. 



6i 



jfables; for tfte jfritiolous; 



THE FIRST FAILURE 

The comrade of your youth is disturbed from his 
slumber by Thomas. Walking to your chair, with 
the aid of a cane, he presses his purple lips to your 
cold forehead, and finding it so, quite naturally 
murmurs, "Dear girl." The tears course down his 
wrinkled cheeks and, if you know, it is the first time 
you have failed in the wifely duty of comforting 
your "Dick/' 



THE END 



62 



■■kB..iiMi>i^MB^llk.«..i^Mtfi^^i^iMMi^MMHlfeb«HLk. 



HER BEAUX 



THE EGOTIST 

The Right Man gazed adoringly at the Right 
Girl as she tilted her sunburned face and smiled up 
at him. 

"There must have been many other men in your 
life before this summer," he began tenderly, "men 
better than I and more worthy of you. Tell me 
about them, those other beaux." 

The Right Girl frankly displayed an even row of 
pearly teeth. 

"Of course there have been," she declared, "but 
none as nice as you. Truly," she added quickly, as 
he gasped incredulously, "all the men I have ever 
known have gradually transformed from sugar- 
coated dreams into nightmares." 

The Right Man emitted a satisfied little laugh. 

"I am lucky," he sighed. "I don't care now if a 
million men have loved you, as long as you marry 



me!" 



A LITTLE JEALOUS 

The Right Girl raised her eyebrows. "Indeed! 
I should think you would want to be the one and 
only, and be jealous of every fellow who ever 
glanced admiringly at me." She spoke peevishly. 

65 



4Fa6Ie0 for tfte 4FnlJOlou0 



'I'm not," replied the Right Man, "not the least 
bit envious, for haven't you told me that you were 
never in love before? Therefore, 1 am the first — 
the first to have kissed you." 

Maybe the Right Girl winced a trifle. Maybe 
her conscience pricked her. 

''Well, after all," she sighed, ''though I have 
liked several men in my time, I have always real- 
ized that I was only interested in the pictures they 
drew of themselves, not the inner being." 

The Right Man looked grave. "Are we ego- 
tists all ?" he queried. 

"Oh, no, only one," answered the Right Girl, 
reminiscently. 

"Commence with him and slaughter them all off 
for me. I want to hear what you think of 'us 
men'." 

"I shall put the egotist first," the Right Girl chat- 
ted, " 'cause that is most likely what he would do, 
and, if you noticed, I also started talking with the 
personal pronoun 'I.' He would have done that, 
too. He presents himself with a list of his virtues 
and tells you how much his boss thinks of him. 
Once a celebrated artist wished to model after him." 

The Right Man "humphed" audibly. 

"That's not all," she continued. "He is reverent 
toward the aged. That for his manliness. Just 
as if I couldn't see what an exertion it was for him 
to rise when Father came into the room. Just as if 
I couldn't see his padded shoulders. I guess the 
artist was an upholsterer. Later on I learned of 
what an excellent family he came. They were 
either the most prominent in Brooklyn or Hoboken, 

66 



jra6Ie0 for tfte JFritJoIou0 



I forget which. He was good to his mother, so he 
said, and devoted to his unmarried sisters. 

"When you get tired of hearing about his won- 
derful family, he switches off, for variety, and tells 
you he loves you, begs a kiss, and hopes that you 
will wait for him. He cannot marry until his 
brother, aged ten, arrives at manhood to take his 
place as head of the family. By now you are dis- 
gusted, and show it by being out when he calls and 
refusing to answer his letters. At last he comes to 
and finds it impossible to do without you, or so he 
thinks, but it is plain that his vanity is bruised and 
he thinks it is you who cannot live without him. 
He is only dead in love with himself all over again. 
He threatens self-destruction, but you fear nothing 
and warrant that it is the one thing that will never 
happen. 

WASTED EVENINGS 

*With a fond farewell he moans, *You have hurt 
me irreparably !' Still thinking of himself, you see, 
not of your wasted evenings and wasted gas that 
burned as an altar light at his sanctuary." 

The Right Man had listened attentively. Slowly 
and soberly he said, **So that is an egotist ! Dearie, 
it's a misnomer. He is a conceited puppy." 

"Yet, you wouldn't call his regard for himself 
puppy love, would you?" asked the Right Girl, and 
the Right Man wondered. 



'^. 



THE HUMORIST 

The sweet voice stilled. The green canoe floated 
down the dark lake. Nothing could be heard save 
the hushed splash of the dipping paddles as they 
hit the water. The Right Girl smoothed a pillow 
and rested comfortably. 

"That was a pretty song," complimented the 
Right Man, "only a trifle sad for you!" 

"I like to be sad and morbid once in a while," 
said his fair companion. "I would hate to be opti- 
mistic. There ! I've shown my true colors. I love 
to weep!" 

"Well! I am disappointed!" The man's tone 
seemed hurt. "One of the many reasons why I 
liked you was your ability to be so jolly and gay." 

"Why use the past tense?" the girl sat upright. 
"Has my sudden sign of individuality extinguished 
your admiration?" 

"Ouch!" groaned the Right Man aloud, "hast 
swallowed the dictionary?" 

HE SWALLOWED A JOKE BOOK 

"No, but I once knew a youth who swallowed 
a joke book." 

68 



Jfa61e0 tor t&e jFritJoIou0 



The Right Man laughed. ''A description of him. 
Is he second on the blackhst?" 

The Right Girl pouted. 

"Go on," urged the Right Man, "introduce me 
to the humorist." 

"I won't," she snapped, forgetting her grammar. 
"I don't feel a bit funny. I seldom do when I think 
of him forever smiling." 

"Appreciating his own humor?" asked the Right 
Man, gaily in tune w^ith the world. The moon 
sailed across the sky and the girl f rowningly point- 
ed it out. 

"See the moon ! He's an optimist. Does he ever 
stop grinning?" 

"Only when you have been a naughty lady," re- 
plied the Right Man jocosely. 

"I warn you not to be flippant. I'm in no mood 
for it." 

"Suppose you had married the humorist. What 
then?" 

At this the Right Girl drooped pensively. "I'd 
rather have a grumbler. You can come to some 
understanding. But from a man who is pleased at 
everything and turns and twists all situations into 
jokes, deliver me! Imagine if the eggs at break- 
fast are not as fresh as they should be, and you 
wish to compose a tirade for the grocer. As you 
rehearse it on your life partner he will only come 
across with, 'Why does a chicken cross the road?' 
So sympathetic!" 

"Is that the way the humorist would act? How 
very disagreeable when you have a headache!" 

"When you have a headache," repeated the Right 

69 



jFa6le0 for tfte Jftitoolou0 



Girl, **you are obliged to listen to his hearty mirth 
as he reads the comic section of the evening news- 
papers." 

"Does he woo in the same jocular manner?** 



THE GIRL GIGGLES 

The Right Girl couldn't refrain from a light gig- 
gle. **He once asked me if I was fond of birds, 
and when I said I was, he retorted, *Kiss me for a 
lark.' " 

The Right Man dropped a paddle. He mur- 
mured wrath fully. The girl regained her good 
nature as the Right Man lost track of his. 

**One touch of humor makes the whole world 
kin!" she sang out. 

The Right Man was strangely silent. 

"'Smatter?" asked the Right Girl. 

**That last witticism irritated me." 

*^0h, you disappoint me. I thought you so jolly 
and gay. That was why I loved you." The maiden 
laid great stress on the *'ed." 

They drifted. They pondered. 

"It's pleasant to be pleasant when you feel pleas- 
ant," soliloquized the Right Girl, "but it's unpleas- 
ant to try to be pleasant when you don't feel pleas- 
ant" 

"That's no joke!" from the Right Man, as he 
caught up with better spirits. 

"No, the only joke is the humorist," said the 
Right Girl, and the Right Man tipped the canoe as 
he bestowed upon ruby lips a bird of a kiss ! 

70 



THE MOLLYCODDLE 



<ti 



'Come, let's go 'round the porch," invitingly 
beckoned the Right Girl to the Right Man. ''Tm 
tired of listening to the small talk of these women," 
she whispered to him. ''If the conversation was at 
all uplifting I'd stay and develop my soul, but 
surely their hubbies' salaries and their maids' blun- 
ders and wrongdoings will not benefit me." 

The Right Man seemed ready to accompany her 
to the end of the earth. 

"I've had such a narrow escape!" she told him, 
as they swung in the free-for-all hammock. ''One 
woman a while ago said that her John just doted 
on washing dishes. The more of them to do, the 



merrier." 



A LUCKY ESCAPE 

The Right Man, having often camped out, threw 
up his hands in amazement. "You don't say ! But 
why have you had the escape? I should think she 
v/as the one, escaping from menial work." 

"I may be primitive" — the girl resembled any- 
thing but a cave-dweller, as she spoke pleasantly — 
"but I'd rather slave — though it isn't necessary now, 
there are so many labor-saving devices — I'd prefer 
to do the home tasks with the knowledge that you 

71 



jFafileg for tfie jFtitioIous 



were safe in another room comfortably reading or 
smoking, after a hard day at the office, than to have 
you pottering around trying to hinder me." 

A vision of himself, clad in a checked apron, pro- 
voked the Right Man to chuckle at the very idea. 
"I can't distinguish a rolling pin from a dumbbell. 
I suppose I could shave potatoes." 

The Right Girl leaned toward him and adjusted 
his tie. ^'I sincerely hope that you will not be 
called upon to perform any culinary duties. I trust 
that you will keep out of the kitchen." 

^'Honest! I promise!" vowed the Right Man. 
"But to go back to your escape. What did you 
mean — from a jungle beast?" 

Her eyes twinkled merrily before her answer 
came. "Yes, from the woeful, doleful mollycod- 
dle." 

"Here Molly, here Molly !" called the man as to a 
cat. "I want to know more about you." 

This was the Right Girl's cue. "I never heard 
of a king looking at a cat. However, and I shall 
now present the mollycoddle to you. Three sum- 
mers ago we went back to nature and boarded on 
a farm, and we found the proprietor to be a tall, 
handsome young man. My heart palpitated consid- 
erably until I further discovered that, besides run- 
ning the place, he acted as his own domestic help ! 
The sight of this husky sample of manhood knead- 
ing bread cured me. That he was clever, cannot 
be denied. He could cook, launder, dust, sweep" — 

"In short," chimed in the Right Man, "he was a 
perfect jewel of a maid. Where did you come in?" 

72 



jfa6Ie0 for tfie ifritoolous 



CONSTANT PROPOSALS 

"Generally through the back way. I feared to 
meet him! He proposed every time we came face 
to face, and he was always accompanied by a pan 
under his arm, or had a towel wound around his 
head. Though I never swerved from a decided 
*No/ he regained courage whenever he polished the 
silver. My room was the pink of cleanliness, the 
height of neatness. He kept it so!'' 

"I should think he would have come in handy. 
What a chance for a languid lady." The Right 
Man had been touched by this useful ghost of the 
past. "He wanted you badly, too." A nonentity is 
so appealing! 

"He might have wanted me," — the Right Girl 
blushed becomingly — "but he didn't need me." 

"I need you," said the Right Man by way of 
comfort. 

"And I respect you !" For which the Right Girl 
was promptly and appropriately awarded. It pays 
to idealize. 



73 



SENTIMENTAL TOMMY 

For the first time, the Right Man called at the 
Right Girl's city address. He entered breathlessly 
and caught her extended hands in an unmerciful 
grip. 

*'Do you know," he exclaimed eagerly, **I was 
never more surprised in all my life than when I 
turned the corner of this street to-night?" 

The Right Girl stood unfeignedly awe-stricken 
by his evident excitement and strange, undemon- 
strative greeting. "Why?" she managed to gasp, 
thinking perhaps he had found a fat wallet on the 
pavement. 

*'0h! it's too wonderful," he raved on. ''I — I 
used to live on this same street years and years 
ago, and I'd entirely forgotten until the houses sud- 
denly seemed friendly and one stood embossed, and 
I recollected with a rush of dear memories our old 
home! It's too great to think that I can pass it 
every evening I come to see you!" 

"We're going to move on the fifteenth," said the 
Right Girl, in a matter-of-fact tone, and, though 
she had spoiled his climax, he rallied. 

THE OLD HOME 

"Ifs the fourth house over the way after that 
row of brownstones." He rushed to the window 

74 



jFa6Ie0 for tfte JFritJOlous 



and pulled up the shade. "There it is" — ^he indi- 
cated which one. "See that light? That used to 
be our room. Three of us boys had it together. 
And the yard ! Such good fun as we had out there 
climbing the fence. I'd like to see the yard again. 
Do you think if I stopped in the occupant would let 
me have a peek at it?" 

The Right Girl apparently timed him, for she 
directed an impatient glance at the clock. 

"Nothing can compare with this feeling of re- 
viewing a bygone dwelling wherein every nook and 
cranny bears the mark of your pet penknife." He 
pressed his nose against the glass, drinking in the 
familiar sight. 

The girl stifled a sigh. "The house must have 
been in a fine condition when you left. I hate to 
disturb you from your pretty reverie, but I think — > 
I just think — that you have tickets for a show and 
I think that they are dated for this evening." 

The Right Man awoke. "Get your wrap quick," 
he commanded. "I'll 'phone for a taxi." 

Once within the cab, the Right Girl inquired 
what they were on their way to see. 

"A revival of The Old Homestead,' " replied her 
sweetheart. "It's a famous play." 

"That's the last straw!" she cried, and, after a 
dreadful silence, "Look here! I want you to un- 
derstand that I once declined a proposal from a 
Sentimental Tommy, and at this late hour I'm not 
going to be caught in the sugar-coated toils of an- 
other! Really, dearest," she coaxed, almost mirth- 
fully, "I'm afraid we shall clash on the subject of 
'Old Homes.' I don't mind being stored in one 

75 



Jfa61e0 (or tfte Jftitioloug 



when all my faculties are gone, but until then I'll 
move every seven years at least. It's sanitary!' 



i>> 



A FUTILE PROTEST 

The man made a futile attempt at protesting. 

"Wait a minute," she waved him off. "I could 
have wed a rich, poetical gentleman and resided in 
a ruined castle with twittering birds, while my 
spouse at my side read dreamy literature to me by 
the ream. All that was required of me in return 
was expressed rapture on hearing a delightful 
metaphor or simile. I gave it up for my secret 
ideal, a real, alive, bustling business man and a six- 
room apartment.'' 

*'Well, I've been feeling 'blue' all day. I guess 
I want a home. That boarding house gets on my 
nerves." The Right Man pitied himself. 

"You shall have a home, precious," she assured 
him, "and it will be the loveliest ever, because of 
our own making. As two birds build and deco- 
rate " 

The Right Man slipped an arm tenderly around 
the modified basque. "Who's sentimental, now?" 
he laughed. And though she thought, "Not I, in- 
deed!" had there been a jury to judge they would 
have brought in a verdict of "Guilty" for both. 



7<5 



A FAREWELL 

Aye, 'tis long now that we have walked together; 

And how you clung to me through storm and win- 
ter weather! 

Hard by, below, beneath the stalwart pine, 

Marked in the soil, old prints of yours and mine; 

Full well know I the ''best of friends must part" — 

But you seem bound with strings around my heart ; 

Tattered, torn, and bent; and withered is your 
tongue ; 

You're creaking, worn, rent; and I'm still young! 

Another after you will seem so lowly, 

You hid the worst in me, saw only holy; 

To some new fancy, younger, I shall turn. 

Though now my very feet do burn 

x\s I recall with you my first chance meeting; 

Tightly squeezed and pressed, this was your violent 
greeting; 

I love you as we part more than I loved you then; 

I held you till the last — ^farewell — ^Amen. 

Gone is my piked toe ! 

Gone beaded string and bow! 

Gone — fall and winter shoe — 

Twice soled and heeled, I had enough of you ! 

77 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 937 564 A 



tlllS' 



IIIIIHIKHIIIJIIIKHUII 



